


Blood Brothers

by Morteamore



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: Brian offers Dexter a chance to reclaim a connection between them.A re-working of a scene from the season one finale.





	Blood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Something short and sweet written over a decade ago to explore an angle that came to mind. Just thought I'd throw it up here for archiving.

Biney, or Brian Moser. Laura Moser’s son, my brother, and the Ice Truck Killer. And he’s standing just a few feet away on the rotten wooden porch of 1235 Mangrove Drive. The house that we grew up together in. The house that I’m taped to a chair in, as I break through the surface of unconsciousness at the kitchen table. How could I have forgotten? The protective older brother there all my life, the other figure at the scene of the massacre buried in the nest of my memories. He’s sitting across from me, shaggy black hair framing black eyes that reflect my own secrets. The Dark Passenger. Passengers. We share the same entity, me and my brother. He undoes the tape and the connection resonates between us as he rests his hand on my wrist. I am free in the presence of the one person who understands me. Framed by deep crevices, his mouth, with its busted lip, looms closer, his forehead brushing mine. 

“Dexter Moser,” he says, but the rest is lost as he kisses me. 

My real name coupled with the faintest of sensations, and for the first time I feel something inside me react when I’m used to feeling nothing. It could be a subconscious recognition of similarities, or my mind adjusting to the situation. But I’d like to think this was what Dr. Emmett Meridian spoke about before he met his demise at the hands of the real me, a counterpart that could breach my barriers and make me feel like everyone else. And if it is that, it makes perfect sense that the other monster is sitting on the same branch of my family tree.

My brother’s hand, skilled at wielding tools of our trade and making precision cuts, roams my body. I’m reminded of a butcher examining the carcass of a dead animal, kneading along the marbling of supple muscle and jellied fat to find the perfect place to slide the knife in. There’s no doubt of our relationship there. Blood is both our lives, and on both our minds. Always the urge to spill it. That need to kill. But Brian’s Passenger has a less discriminating appetite than mine. I may be free in his presence, but he’s always been free. There was no foster father to teach him discipline, or how to channel the urge. No boundaries to his need. It was a spoiled child, always with its talons buried deep within him.

He speaks to me, and his words suggest that I could have a similar life. No more hiding who I am, or faking. If I stayed with him, if we killed together, I could always have freedom, not just now. His hand brushes my thigh and I think of all the hookers that he cleaved and severed, the edges of bone beautifully preserved, as if they’d been constructed that way. If I gave up the girlfriend and my job, my foster sister Deb, I could have that, too. And what a relief it would be, to stop pretending.

“You’re hard.” Brian’s voice is flat in my ear, and it’s merely a statement. 

How can I not be with what he’s offering? 

“It’s what you want, isn it?” 

He knows me and knows it is. 

“To be who you are.”

My brother moves from his seat and straddles me, and I can feel through his pants that he has the same affliction. I wasn’t the only one of us who needed the connection, it seemed. The feeling, like so many others, was mutual.

I feel his hands on my throat and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. And again something inside me twitches, like a muscle spasm, and I want to latch on to it before it could slip away again. His predator instincts sense my need and when he kisses me this time it’s as violent as the acts he’s capable of committing. My teeth clamp his tongue, and he returns the favor, our mouths tinny and slick with the blood we draw. I hear the click of plastic buttons as he tugs open my shirt, some of them spilling to the floor out of force, and I groan as he digs the balls of his fingers into the skin under my rib cage. The chair beneath me scrapes against tile like a metal door catching on the ground, or the sound of the motor of an electric saw turning over. He takes his shirt off, the protrusions of his bones against his taught skin like a living puzzle that I want to break apart and rearrange. This is a new tramping ground, one that’s vague at most, and he’s inviting me to come play. 

And so I do. 

I touch him like I touched Rita after I had my first major break through. With need, with passion. Running my fingers through the dark tangles of his hair, down his spine; memorizing each crevice of his body. But with my girlfriend I was only going through the motions, and with my brother there is no act. This coupling we’re driven to is that of two estranged beings finding something real to tether themselves to. Maybe the only real thing that him and I know besides the blood.

When my brother grabs my hand and places it on his erection, I’m almost jolted from the dream that’s being spun. For a moment I’m back with Rudy Cooper, Brian’s alter ego. The soft spoken prosthetic specialist that was dating my step sister. I stare into his face, trying to see the foundations of the mask in his sharp, pale features, and how I could’ve missed them all this time. Maybe Brian had no mask. Maybe the monster was always exposed to the world, staring out with his eyes. I make a fist, squeezing him and he thrusts against my hand. I match him, soft and swollen flesh gliding against my palm. A faint pulse. Blood even in this act, corpora cavernosa engorged with it. My eyes never leave his face, studying the contortions of his expression. A grimace of pleasure, like a grimace of pain, and the lines of differentiation are blurred. The groans he makes sound wounded. I stroke him harder, reaping the sensations that build in him and myself. He grips me, nails piercing the flesh like the prick of several needles at once, and there’s blood there too, now. I imagine the glistening beads emerging from the wound, the traces of red embedded under his fingernails. 

“Biney,” I mutter, not realizing I said it out loud until he fixes his gaze on me.

I feel exposed before him, and know he’s looking inside me, piercing my soul. But he knows and accepts what he sees there, where others don’t, or wouldn’t. A sudden flash back seizes my vision, me on the living room floor at age three, my knee scraped raw. And him bending over me, dressing the wound, Laura Moser framed in the doorway watching, smiling. proud of her two boys. I cry out, in need of what was once my life, in pain at slicing the scar open after all this time. The vision fades and I’m clinging to Brian, whose panting, body pulled taught and trembling. For a moment I think somehow we’d shared the same vision. As if we had been on opposite ends of the same cord and he experienced the repercussions of my reaction. But then I feel warm fluid trickle down my hand, and him slump against me, and I know it was just the throes of climax. I don’t let go of him, instead tightening my grip. His breathing hitches in my ear and he whispers something. But I’m not listening. I’m still studying the trail his semen’s made across my fingers and knuckles, and the back of my hand. The off white would soon dry into an opaque film, and there’s a part of him there. And, perhaps, a part of me. A little Something shared between Dark Passengers. My own erection aches, as if to remind me of its presence, but I ignore it. There’s a greater force in the room now, invisible and heavy on the air, and I don’t need what my body is offering.

I’m unsure of the length of time that goes by before Brian extracts himself from my grasp and hauls us up. He redoes his pants, and I reach to do my shirt but it’s missing more then half its buttons, so I don’t bother. The entire time he never stops touching me, a hand at my back, on my shoulder. I feel I should return the embrace somehow, touch him the way he does me. But I can’t comprehend it and so I don’t. I glance at my hand every few seconds, noticing the cum’s crusted over. Like a scab, but I won’t scratch at this one.

“I have something for you,” Brian says and leads me into a room, walls framed by black and blue tarp. 

There’s a single florescent light overhead, casting sinister light on an examining table beneath it. And on the table, unconscious and bound by layered strips of plastic and industrial grade tape, is my sister. My step sister Debra. I feel a tug inside me. Fear, panic, despair? All of the above, maybe.

“She’s not your real family.”

A kitchen knife is coiled in Brian’s grasp, sharp as a sword, and he holds it away from his body. Not quite giving it to  
me, not quite offering. 

But the invitation is there. 

I don’t move, concentrated on both him and Deb at the same time.

“We'll do her together.”

Together. To share a kill. It would be wrong to say I’m not tempted. To give it all up and sever the ties that bind me. To revel in what I am. 

He raises the knife above Deb’s chest.

And in that moment my instinct makes the decision for me.

Before I lash out, before I grab him with the very hand he’s left his presence on, before I stop that knife from plunging deep into Deb’s chest and severing her from the world of the living, I have one thought. A thought that’s clearer than anything I’ve known before, that comes from a place that’s never spawned anything but an empty void. 

I have to kill my brother, the one person I ever connected with, and who could have offered me the chance to finally be myself.

I have to kill Biney.

This thought, it comes directly from my heart.


End file.
